


These Nights Are Hell (And The Days Aren't Much Fun Either)

by Anger_and_Apathy



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Angst, Anxiety, Arthur-centric, Artist Merlin, Asexual Morgana, Depression, F/F, Human Experimentation, Insomnia, M/M, Magic, Memory Loss, Pining Arthur, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Tattoos, graysexual Arthur Pendragon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2017-03-16
Packaged: 2018-02-07 05:14:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 12,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1886418
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Anger_and_Apathy/pseuds/Anger_and_Apathy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur doesn't really like sex, it’s just the only way to ask strangers to hang out with him after the sun goes down. A story about solidarity, insomnia, and unexpected connections.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is un-beta'd. Be gentle with me.

_One: Arthur_

            Arthur makes it to the fourth day before crashing, and wakes up to the clatter of 2:00am cutlery and the smell of stale smoke, slumped over a scared wooden table beside a dark-eyed Morgana. The table is hard beneath his head, and the torn red vinyl sticks to his calves as he shifts against the seat, shaking and stiff. Sweat pools at the dip of his back and the creases of his elbows, and his skin feels flushed and raw all over. Morgana is tucked into the booth across from him, long legs curled delicately beneath her thin body, exhaling a steady curl of smoke into the stagnant air. She watches intently as he pushes himself up, dropping ash into her saucer with nervous flicks of her long fingers. She looks bad, nail beds stained the dark yellow of nicotine. She looks beautiful, all drawn pale skin and drowned black hair. He blinks beneath the watery fluorescents, tracking the sticky linoleum tiles and paneled wooden walls as his vision slowly resolves.

            “What did you see?” she asks without introduction, and he has a brief impression of dark waters and reaching hands before the memory dissolves into nothing.

            “Nothing,” he tells her, and watches as her thin shoulders sag beneath her ragged cardigan.  

            They order plates of eggs and burnt black coffee and try not to talk about the one thing they have in common. Morgana takes drags on her cigarette between bites like she doesn’t know how to breathe without it, and Arthur thinks about death and drowning and lets the smoke go to his head. The sounds of the restaurant are soothing, the familiar drag of quiet conversation, the whir and click of the ancient air system. Arthur listens to them and doesn’t at the same time. They feel like they are a part of his bones.

            He is both deeply unnerved and deeply relieved that Morgana always seems to find him. Arthur tracks the erratic gestures of her graceful hands. The low, rough drag of her voice through the humid air, and remembers the first time he woke to find her sitting beside him, a slender specter in a damp alleyway. He remembers the rain as it had fallen from the sky, and how she’d knelt on the grimy asphalt and pushed a cheap cup of tepid tea into his still-trembling fingers. There had been blood matted in his hair and smeared on his forehead, and she’d pulled the sleeve of her sweatshirt over her palm and wiped it away as he’d taken his first shaking sip, numb lips and stinging eyes. He can still feel the exact way the liquid had slid down his aching throat, how he’d let his eyes fall shut and his head tip back and felt the cold sting of the rain on his fevered skin and a rush of warmth towards this inexplicable stranger. He’s stopped collapsing in alleys, but still can’t shake the feeling that he’s underwater.

            They finish their food and shrug on their jackets, and Arthur offers to walk Morgana home, but she just shakes her head, stamping out the orange embers of her cigarette against the asphalt. Then she steps off the curb and disappears into the darkness with her fists shoved into her pockets. Arthur watches the night swallow her whole.

         Arthur sometimes wonders what Morgana does, if she has an office job or if she spends her days in lecture halls. He pictures her in elegantly fitted blazers and crisp black slacks, in artfully shredded jeans and scuffed doc martins, in fast food uniforms, in sun dresses. It doesn’t really matter. They never talk about what they do during the day time. They talk about the food and the shitty service. They don’t talk about their lives. Not beyond blurred late nights and bad cups of coffee. Sometimes, though, he wonders about the other things. About her family, and where she lives. About her last name. Most times he tries not to think about the fact that she’s probably the closest thing he has to a friend.

        That night his circle of their usual haunts comes up empty, so he lets himself be picked up by some stranger in a bar, goes back to an unfamiliar apartment and tries not to look too closely at the man’s face. He’s given up on recognizing anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

_Two: Merlin_

            Merlin wakes up on the floor of his new apartment, and for a second he can’t remember who he is. He feels his heartbeat in the press of his back against the floorboards, the rush of air leaving his lungs, but his mind is blank. For a second he stares wide-eyed at the ceiling, tracing the cracks in the plaster and the thin stretch of cobwebs, searching for something he can’t define. Then his hands stretch out across the hardwood floor, and his fingers brush against familiar fabric, and everything comes rushing back in. Merlin gets a shaky hand curled in the leather of his jacket and lets out a long, slow breath.

         He sits up stiffly, wincing at the unexpected burn across his ribs, and turns his head to look at the loft. At the boxes piled high in the corner, and the unopened envelope on the countertop. This is his home now. He walks into the bathroom and toes off his shoes, absently brushing at the pain on his chest. There’s a note stuck to the mirror above the sink, and he leans over to read it, turning on the tap with a flick of his wrist and letting the water pool in his hands. _Library,_ it says, _home soon._ There’s a tiny heart scribbled beneath the writing, and a smudged fingerprint on the glass and Merlin smiles to himself and washes his face and remembers he is not alone.

            His side sears again as he straightens, and he lifts the edge of his t-shirt up carefully, easing the fabric over the fresh ink of the new tattoo. The bird stands out stiffly against his pale skin, its wings reaching down his body, arching out towards his hips and seconds away from taking flight. Staring down at it, Merlin remembers the sharp burn of the needle and the way the artist’s hands had traced over his skin. He pulls slowly back from the sink, watching the shift of his reflection as he carefully undresses.  

          There is ink drawn across his body, pooled in the creases of his elbows and the backs of his knees, waves on his chest and worlds on his heart. It distresses his mother, he knows, but he doesn’t have the words to tell her that he likes leaving these messages on his body. That if he forgets soon, there are things he wants to tell himself. Notes he wants to leave. He’s losing more and more lately, and he desperately needs himself to know that it’s alright, that he isn’t scared at the end. His mother fusses with his hair and moans about what he’ll think when he’s forty, and Merlin cannot tell her that he probably won’t see the New Year. That what memories he can hold onto are coming to an end, and these days when he falls asleep he’s never sure who he’ll be the next morning. He hopes there is someone to tell her, when it happens. That he isn’t afraid.

            It takes the water a minute to heat up, and he stands beneath the cold spray with his head bent low and his fingers curled in loose fists. He likes the idea of waking up to a blank slate one morning. Of rediscovering himself in the ink on his body and the callouses on his hands. He hopes it will tell a good story. He hopes he will be proud.

        Steam slowly fills the room, fogging the mirror and blurring his reflection. Merlin squints his eyes and stares at himself, dripping and naked, and thinks about fading away, tries not to think of anything at all. He turns off the water and walks back into the living room and paints sweeping landscapes on crisp canvases, tacks butcher paper to the wall and smears charcoal up to the ceiling. He runs out of space and has to start over, spreads blank sheets across the paper and feels as though he is spinning apart.

        He imagines himself discovering his artwork. Thinks maybe when it happens he’ll set up a gallery and call it something whimsical. Something poetic and charming like “Memories of my past self”. That it will be an instant success and he’ll start selling prints and make a modest living. That one day he’ll fall in love, and then they’ll sell the shop in the city, and move to one of the good school districts, and he’ll get a quiet teaching job and have barbeques on the weekends and at nights he’ll roll back his sleeves and the marks on his arms will make him smile slightly when he sees them, funny reminders of a distant life, and he’ll fall asleep beside someone and grow old.  

        He thinks all of these things, goes over them like a prayer. Tells himself that it will be a good life. Tells himself he will be alright.


	3. Chapter 3

_Three: Arthur_  

       He’s tired, that hot around the ears, too exhausted to breathe kind of tired, when he makes it back to his apartment the next day. He hasn’t showered, hasn’t slept, hasn’t eaten in days and his mouth is dry and tastes like sex, tastes like death. Mornings like this he misses Morgana. Misses her sharp smile and sharper laugh, misses the sound of her voice telling him to go home. Wishes he could. He wrestles his keys out of his pocket and flips through them, spends minutes flicking through the tiny pieces of metal with blurred eyes, before he’s finally sure he’s found the right one.

       When he turns the corner, there’s a tall, black-haired boy standing on his doormat, one hand fiddling with his phone as he pulls at the strap of his messenger bag. Arthur blinks.

       “Can I help you?” he asks, abrupt, and the kid swings round and almost drops everything.

       “Yeah,” he says, his smile is all white teeth and radiance and Arthur feels it like a shot, “I’m, ah, new to the building and,” he twists round, scanning the floor, and the edge of his t-shirt rides up over his hip. “I think I might have lost my key, do you know where-”

       “Landlord’s one floor up,” Arthur says shortly. He turns to his lock, but then there’s a small, startled sound behind him that makes him pause.

          A slender, dark-haired girl has appeared at the boy’s side. There are constellations spread across her face, but her eyes shine like double homicides, and Arthur shivers and glances away. The girl knocks into the boy’s side and knits their fingers together, glancing up at Arthur through her lashes. The boy looks down as if he’s just realized she’s here, and gives her hand a quick squeeze.

        “This is Freya,” he says tender, and then his eyes flick up to meet Arthur’s, who feels the shock spike through his whole body, “And I’m Merlin.”

          Arthur gets himself through the door before the burning behind his ears builds, and he has to fumble the door shut, seeing red. The desire hits his body in waves, hot and painful, and all he can do is collapse against the wall and let the current take over, pull him under. Moments like these he remembers that he’s not like other people. Crouched against the door, he curls into himself and wonders how they do this without it tearing them apart.


	4. Chapter 4

_Four: Morgana_

         This time it’s a city. This time there are cars and busses and buildings that pierce the sky, and Morgana almost loses herself in the whirl and bustle and madness of it all, but doesn’t. This time Arthur is the son of a painfully successful business man, and he’s painfully rich and privileged like he was in the old days. Except, this time he can’t sleep, and he has this haunted look in his eyes that makes her think he’s learning something new this time around.

       This time they aren’t together, and she spends the first 25 years of her life alone, lost in the folds of the world and the pain of longing. Then she meets Arthur and the sting eases, but never abates. He doesn’t remember her. No one’s heard from Merlin. No one’s heard from Gwen. This time she stands above the city, with the wind in her hair and her eyes squeezed shut. This time she looks out across the endless buildings and wide, gray sky, draws the air deep into her burning lungs, closes her eyes and hopes with every bone in her body. _Find me_ , she thinks, _Please._ They don’t.

       She gets down from buildings. She goes on with her life. But this time she’s smaller than she has been before. She gets used to the slender circle of her wrists and the shorter length of her strides, but she has to work constantly to hold herself together, to keep from spinning apart. This time she looks at her hands and can’t recognize them some days. She can already sense the subtle ebb of her memories, the sickening tug and pull of forgetting. She fights to keep what is hers, and it leaves her trembling and tired, sucking down cigarettes and checking her watch without knowing why. This time they’re running out of time.


	5. Chapter 5

_Five: Arthur_

          Arthur checks each of their spots twice that night. He doesn’t find her on the first round, but on the second Morgana’s sitting at a tiny circular table tucked into the corner of a dimly-lit bar. He starts towards her, feeling himself start to smile, then stops. She’s shredding salt packets. Arthur watches the paper tear and the tiny crystals spill out across the tabletop, watches the way her hands can’t quite stop moving, and feels the warm bubble of euphoria drain from his chest. He’s sliding into the chair before he knows he’s moved, and Morgana is looking up at him with a nervous half-smile, fingers darting up to smooth hair.

         “What is it?” he asks, and his voice sounds sharp in his ears, “What’s happened?”

         Morgana shrugs one slim shoulder,

        “He wants to talk.”

        Arthur feels his face drain,

       “You can’t,” he tells her, and Morgana shakes her head, brushing her fingers through her long hair,

       “Its fine,” she dismisses, “I’m stronger this time.”

       “You’re not,” he says, and her eyes cut up to his, “No, you’re not Morgana, but that’s not what matters. It won’t matter if you’re stronger.”

       She sighs, shifting back in her chair and letting her hand drop to the table. Looks at him point blank,

       “I need answers.”

       There are icebergs in his blood.

      “Morgana,” he says slowly, “They won’t be your answers.”

She looks away.

  

         He goes back to his apartment in the early hours of the morning, but the black stretch of the skyline outside his window makes the room seem small, and no matter how many lights he turns on, it still feels dark. The laundry room is open all night, so he throws together his dirty clothes, and hauls them down the three flights of stairs and across a landing, fighting his exhausted lungs for breath.

         He freezes the moment he opens the door. There’s a stranger pulling wet clothes out of the washer, only he isn’t as strange as he could be. Arthur stares. There’s a dark curl of ink just visible above the neck of his worn t-shirt, a mysterious sweep of blues and gold that dips below the collar of the man’s shirt and disappears between his shoulder blades. He’s wearing a black beanie pulled low over his dark curls, and has changed out of his jeans and jacket into a navy thermal and baggy sweats. His feet are bare against the floor boards, and Arthur watches his toes shift against the wood as he turns to pull something from one of the shelves and is struck by how comfortable he looks here, so at ease in his surroundings that this could have been his home for years.

       Arthur feels the prickle of heat against the back of his neck, the hot hang of his clothes against his body and the hard press of his shoes against the soles of his feet and for a second the air roars in his ears and he has to blink at the darkness clouding his vision. When he opens his eyes, the stranger is looking at him, mouth quirked in a small, startled smile.

       “Oh,” he says simply, “I didn’t see you.”

        Arthur is still frozen in the doorway, arms full of dirty clothes. He clears his throat, wills enough saliva into his mouth to speak.

        “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he asks curtly, and the answering smile is so easy it’s almost shocking,

       “Can’t sleep,” the man says, and Arthur tries not to let that mean anything to him. It doesn’t mean anything. Except it feels like it might mean everything.

       They’ve been staring at each other for too long now, so Arthur does what he does best, turns away and gropes open the lid of the washing machine. Ignores the burn in his chest and the air in his lungs, just propels his body forward. He turns around to grab the detergent and finds that the man is still looking at him, head cocked slightly to one side,

       “What?” he asks, and is almost surprised by the answer.

        “I think we got off to a bad start.”

        “We didn’t,” Arthur tells him, turning back towards the washing machine. He tries to fumble coins into the slot, but his vision goes blurry. He clutches the quarters and counts to ten, willing his body to calm. He turns back in time to see the man, _Merlin_ , run a hand back through his wild hair,

       “It’s just that Freya’s kind of… she’s shy, you know? We didn’t mean to be rude.”

        And Arthur feels his heart stop,

        “You weren’t rude,” he says immediately,

        And Merlin’s smile widens, eyes alight and whole body radiant,

       “There it is,” he says softly.  Then he’s pushing himself off of the wall, walking forward with quick, sure steps, and Arthur feels the air between them disappear. Merlin stops a few inches from Arthur, and Arthur isn’t sure if the ache in his chest is relief.  “Let’s do this again,” he says, soft beneath the rhythmic whir of the machines, “I’m Merlin,” and Arthur hears his own name leave his lips in answer.

       “Arthur.”

       Merlin smiles again, soft this time, and he’s close enough that Arthur can count his lashes, can trace the flecks of gold in his eyes.

       “It’s good to meet you,” he says, “I’ll see you around.”

        And then the air between them expands again, and Arthur is left raw and shocky like he’s just woken up, hearing the sound of the door closing like an afterthought.

        As a rule, Arthur doesn’t touch himself. He has never been allowed to be enough, even for himself. But there, with the muted whirl and thump of the washing machine at his back, and the high, pure sounds of the city seeping in through the open window, he works a hand beneath his t-shirt and lays it over the hot skin on his chest, closes his eyes, and feels his heart beat for the first time in years.


	6. Chapter 6

_Six: Morgana_

            Morgana knows almost certainly where they’ll be, but still hopes that she’s wrong. She isn’t. She finds them in the usual spot, spread out around a long, oval table cluttered with steaming mugs and scraps of paper. The bell above the door gives a gentle tinkle when she pushes it open, and their eyes snap up to meet hers. She recognizes that hungry, haunted look. Morgana shivers. She walks blindly to the counter, threading her way through tiny tables and painfully artistic strangers with black-framed glasses and sharp silver piercings. She catches her own reflection in the glossy screens of glowing laptops, and averts her gaze instinctively. In places like these, she knows better than to look too long at her own reflection. The barista smiles at her when she reaches the counter, and Morgana forces herself to make small talk and orders something hot and strong. Four pairs of eyes track her as she picks up her drink, following her hungrily as she turns from the counter. Morgana inhales sharply and wraps her fingers tight around the mug. Her hands don’t shake.  

            They’re waiting for her when she approaches, sprawled regally across their chairs. Eyes hooded, and lips curved. Morgana looks to Morgause first, to the wind-swept tumble of her white-blond hair, and the dark outline of her icy eyes. She is effortless in her authority, draped in the translucent folds of a crisp, white tunic. Morgana feels the weight of her gaze throughout her body and has to look away. Nimue reclines against Cedric’s shoulder, lips the dark red of dried blood. She tilts her delicate chin towards Morgana, watching her intently from beneath the straight line of her blunt-cut bangs. Cedric himself looks bored and unyielding, shifting in his seat to reveal the sharp line of silver hoops piercing his delicate ear. He swipes the pad of his thumb absently across Nimue’s cheek, and she turns and murmurs something to him, low and muted. It’s Edwin who greets Morgana, raising his chin to meet her gaze. His scars stand out white against his jaw, plunging down into the neck of his t-shirt. The frayed loops of his scarf part slightly at his neck, showing white slivers of scared skin.

            “Morgana,” he says, and she nods. Edwin smiles, “Please,” he says, “take a seat.” She does, threading her fingers through the holes in her cardigan. Clutches her coffee. Feels her skin prickle. Edwin shifts in his chair, easy, comfortable. “He said we’d be hearing from you,” he murmurs, and Morgana’s stomach flips, “I’m surprised it took this long.”

            “Well,” she says blandly, “Things didn’t end very well last time.”


	7. Chapter 7

_Seven: Arthur_

            It’s the forth night, and Arthur knows he must have slept because he’s had the dream again. Drowned out sounds and boundless black water and he comes too with his nails scraping the wooden floor of his apartment and for a second he can’t remember his own name. After a moment, he pushes himself up, runs the tip of his tongue across the line of his teeth. Feels the cotton film of sleep, the taste of dying things. His t-shirt sticks to the small of his back, hangs heavy against his chest. He’s been here before.

            It takes him a moment, but then he gets to his feet, slow and shaking, and sways there for a minute. All of his muscles ache, and the sweat has started to dry on his skin. He takes a deep breath, fills his lungs, and pushes himself forward. The tile is cold beneath his bare feet and Arthur strips off his clothes quickly, willing his breaths to calm and his heart to slow. He can do this. Even so, he spins the tap without looking at it and steps into the shower with his eyes squeezed shut, chest heaving and hands at his side. He tries not to flinch when the water hits his skin, ignores the hitch in his breath and the plunge of his stomach. The spray rushes down his face and he closes his fists and fights against the memory of water filling his lungs, aching chest and stinging eyes. He opens his mouth, lets a trickle of it into his throat, lets it run over his lips and through his teeth. There’s a part of the dream that he’s never told Morgana, but there, with the empty echo of water in his ears and his heart in his lungs he hears his name being called in the darkness. _Arthur._


	8. Chapter 8

_Eight: Morgana_

            They end up in a tunnel under the city, and Morgana still isn’t sure how they got here. They made her wear a blindfold to the entrance, which is some kind of joke because there’s the smell of bread in the air and the echo of tires across the pavement and she knows their beneath the bus line beside the sandwich place on 5th so really what was the point? When the cloth is finally pulled from her face, it takes her eyes a second to adjust to the darkness. The others are standing close beside her, pressed against each other with somber faces, and she can feel their breath on her skin like the stagnant brush of indistinct wings.

            Morgause is absent today, and Morgana glances around the group and feels regret and relief sweep through her, and doesn’t try to identify the two. Nimueh rolls her tongue around her mouth, tip darting out to taste the air, breathing in open-mouthed. Her lips look black in the darkness, and she licks them carefully before she raises her hand and closes her eyes and Morgana watches the glow start to gather on her fingers. She feels the crackle in the air, and the twist in her stomach, inhales the sharp scent like sudden smoke. Feels power course low in her veins.

            “Stay here,” Nimueh tells them, then vanishes down the tunnel, light blinking out like a warning. The others stand perfectly still, but Morgana shifts in the darkness. She can feel the damp surge of air on her skin, a cold press at the back of her neck where the tunnel stretches out behind them. She feels endless here. Then Nimueh appears again, dim light swallowing her shadowed eyes, “This way,” she says, and they follow.

            Nimueh leads them down a long corridor, dragging her hand down the stone wall. It’s not long before they reach the end of the tunnel. Nimueh stops short and crouches down, one hand resting flat on the face of a storm grate. The air is damp and thick, and Nimueh runs her hand over the heavy padlock, brings the tips of her glowing fingers closer to the keyhole

            Then the light flickers suddenly, and then dies. Nimueh gives an exasperated huff and flicks her wrist.

            “Here,” Morgana says. She steps forward, raises a hand, and sweeps a line of fire through the air. The lock burns orange and then shatters. The others are looking at her. “What?” she asks.

            “Nothing,” Edwin says, he brings a hand up to silence the others, “Let’s go.”

            They move slower after that, ducking low as the tunnel grows steadily smaller, and Morgana breathes in the smells of death and damp and rolls unspoken words across her mouth. Says nothing. Breathes. Edwin is at her side now, face impassive, and she glances at him and sees the scars that run down his face and feels her palms tingle and her stomach clench. He seems to sense her because he smiles, eyes darting over to meet hers, lashes lowered lazily. Morgana shivers and looks away. She doesn’t want to know this answer.

            Then everyone is stopping, and Morgana drags the edges of her jacket a little closer to her body. It’s cold here. It’s cold and their bodies echo against the walls, movements pronounced in stone. She isn’t sure if she likes it. It feels old, but not in the way she does. Not timeless or tired, but ancient. It isn’t a cavern, but the walls of the tunnel veer out enough that it might once have been, before industrialization and multiple additions left it cramped and somewhat empty. There’s more space now, and the others fan out a little, running cautious fingers over the uneven walls. Morgana scuffs the toe of her sneaker through the dirt and glances around. If she focuses she can still hear the whir of the city above them, but the sounds are confused and distorted, jumbled together in ways she can’t distinguish. It makes her head ache and her temples seer, so she opens her eyes and sucks in a breath, turns towards Nimueh,

            “Where are we?” she asks but its Edwin who answers,

            “Somewhere with power,” he says with hungry eyes. There’s a splash behind him. Morgana turns.

            Nimueh is crouched beside the sewage drain, one hand hover above the black surface.

            “It’s the water,” she says, staring into it, “It connects the city. We-” she catches Edwin’s eyes, and sinks back onto her heels, “… find it calming.”

            “Okay…” Morgana starts, and their eyes snap to hers, glowing briefly gold. “So do we…”

            “Get started,” Cedric finishes quickly. He runs the back of his hand over his nose, sniffles slightly, “Yeah,” his eyes dart down, and she’s the redness rimming them, the faint fever sheen.

            Nimueh rolls her graceful neck, cracking the columns of her spine.  

            “Right,” she says, standing, “Let’s begin.”

            There’s a brief exchange between the three of them, but it’s Cedric who ends up stretched out across the center of the floor, arms folded over his chest and legs slightly parted. Morgana hangs back as the others position themselves around him, Edwin kneeling down behin at his head, Nimueh at his side with her elegant legs crossed beneath her. They look up at her once they’ve settled, eyes wide and haunting, and Morgana lowers herself slowly to the dirt, sweat beading slightly at her temples.

            Nimueh has produced a scarred wooden goblet from her bag. She fills it with a quick glance and a whispered word, and then looks to Edwin,

            “I’m ready.”

            Edwin’s smile is fleeting, a quick stretch of thin lips across pale skin. Morgana watches as he traces slender fingers over Cedric temples. There’s a flash of silver at his knuckle, and Morgana’s eyes fall on his ring in the shape of a beetle, and dread settles in her stomach.

             “Wait-” she starts, but then Cedric is screaming. His limps thrash against the floor, throwing dirt into their eyes, and Morgana turns her head and bites her tongue, and Edwin shouts,

             “ _Hold him!_ ” and she does.

             The spasm rushes through Cedrick’s body, leaving him cold and whimpering. Edwin raises one hand from his forehead, leaving the other in place. Mouth moving silently, he reaches for Nimueh, who links her fingers with his with a murmured phrase. Her other hand trembles slightly as she raises the cup. Images are starting to flicker across the surface of the liquid. Morgana sees a flash of red, a black flutter of wings. She shuts her eyes against them, but the images stand across the backs of her eyelids, raised like scars. Nimueh is murmuring something beside her, and the words scrape against her ears, grating and raw and she has to breathe through it, has to open her mouth and white out the noise, heart in knots and hands in fist and then-

            She’s stumbling backwards, scrabbling awkwardly to her feet. Her knee scrapes against something hard, pain shooting up her leg.  She can hear the others calling her back, calling her name, but then the cavern is disappearing behind her, the floor of the tunnel flying by past her feet, dark walls and black water flashing by. She takes a left then a right, ducks through the grate and throws herself through the darkness.

            Then she’s gasping in the fresh air, inhaling shuddering lungfuls and feeling the burn at the back of her throat. Nimueh’s voice still echoing in her ears. It takes her a while to move, and when she does her knee stings. She looks down and reaches for it, cupping her palm around the scrape and feeling the warmth run between her fingers. The blood is hot but at least it’s her own.


	9. Chapter 9

_Nine: Arthur_

            Time passes for Arthur. Running by in greys and blues and hot flashes of color. The city comes alive around him, and he fades in and out. Runs down dark streets in the dead of night, sleeps, dreams of drowning. Wakes again. He sees Merlin on the stairs on Tuesday, and his pulse rate spikes, heat flooding the world. He sees Morgana briefly that same night, dancing close to a pretty girl in a crowded club. She’s wearing a short black dress, and her hair hangs in silky sheets down her back. They make eye contact for a moment but don’t speak to each other. Arthur goes home with a man from the bar and feels like he’s sucking water into his lungs. Can’t get a full breath.

            It’s Wednesday when the girl comes to his door. He hears the knock when he’s in the kitchen, and grabs his coffee from the counter, heading towards the door. He’s half expecting Morgana to have found him, half expecting her to come breezing into his living room, smelling like smoke and bad decisions. He has a comeback poised on his tongue, a question in his eyes. Then he opens the door and freezes. There’s a girl on his doorstep, but isn’t Morgana, and for a second his brain shuts off and his heart stutters and he feels like he’s died again.

            When the world re-focuses, Freya is looking up at him.

            “Hi?” Arthur asks. It feels like a question.

            She runs a hand back though her long, brown hair, vibrating on his doorstep.

            “Hello,” she says.

            He wavers for a moment, staring down at her.

            “Do you want to-” he begins, but she cuts him off,

            “No,” she says, waving him off. Then she draws in a deep breath and says, “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.” It doesn’t really come off like a question.

            Arthur hesitates, glancing back over his shoulder,

            “I-” he starts, but then her phone goes off in her bag, filling the hallway with a thin stretch of music. Freya pulls it out, checks the screen, mutters something to herself, and hits a button. The music stops. She shakes her head and looks back up at Arthur,

            “Listen,” she says briskly, “I’m sorry to asks this, but, could you check on him? We don’t know anyone else in the area and I have classes all day and then a meeting with my lab group afterwards and it’s only supposed to be an hour but I _know_ that no one’s started working on our project yet and normally I would have but it’s just…” she trails off, “Sorry. You don’t need to know any of that. But, could you check on him? Just look in a few times today? I, here-” and then she’s digging back through her bag and handing him a key. Arthur looks down at it.

            “What?” he begins, and she rubs at her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. He recognizes the circles under her eyes.

            “He’s on some kind of streak- which, don’t get me wrong is great for rent, but I’m going to be gone all day and I just don’t know if he’s eating or- never mind. I really don’t mean to trouble you, I just…”

            She starts to walk away, and Arthur feels like he’s missed something. He steps out into the hallway, tries to catch up,

            “What?” he calls, and Freya turns, waves a hand,

            “There’s a gallery downtown that buys some of his paintings,” she explains, “So it’s great that he’s working again, but I kind of feel like he’s going to fall down the elevator shaft or forgets to turn off the stove or something,” She sees the look on his face and shakes her head, “He just gets odd when he’s working. Forgetful.”

            Arthur stares at her,

            “…Merlin?” he asks, and she nods,

            “It must be an artist thing because he’s normally so careful about things, you know?”

            “Right,” he says, feeling dazed, and she tilts her head,

            “So you’ll do it?” she asks, and he looks down at the key in his hand.

            “I,” there’s a picture dangling from the keychain, and he turns it over in his palm, “I’m not…”

            “Perfect,” Freya is already turning around, “Just head over there in a few hours and make sure he isn’t drinking paint-thinner or anything. Maybe check if he’s hydrated.”

            She’s at the elevator by the time he regains himself,

            “Wait!” he calls, and she turns around, brow arched. For a moment it reminds him so much of Morgana that he forgets to argue, forgets what he means to say.

            “What is it?” she asks, but he can tell her mind is already miles away. He opens his mouth, but the words he’s expecting don’t come. Instead he hears himself asking,

            “When did it start?”

            “Oh,” she says, “The day we moved in. He’s been painting since that night.”

            Then she’s gone, and Arthur is left staring down at the key in his hand.

            He tries to keep busy, tries to pay his bills and clean his apartment. But he keeps looking at the key on the counter, and by 1pm he gives up and heads back into the hallway. He finds the apartment by the number on the keychain, and is standing in front of the door before he’s had a chance to collect himself. He stands there for a full moment, not sure what to do, before lifting his hand and rapping hard on the door. The sound rings hollowly through the hallway, and then fades away. Nothing. He waits a moment, listening for sounds that don’t come, before fitting the key in the lock and pushing the door open.

            Merlin is standing barefoot and shirtless in the middle of the living room, smearing streaks of charcoal over white paper with the palms of his hands. The muscles in his shoulders flex as he works, jumping erratically as he leans forward to complete a stroke. Arthur watches the shift of the ink on his back, the lines that snake around his hips and down his shoulders. He’s pushed all the furniture over to the wall. There are empty dishes stacked on top of unpacked boxes, empty glasses and half-eaten meals gone cold. Arthur knows these signs.

            Objectively speaking, Merlin is beautiful. But Arthur _feels_ it. In the flush that spreads across his chest, in the heat that gathers to his face. Feels it in the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet. It anchors him there for a second, hot and tingling and forgetting how to breath. He wonders what he’s doing here, why he ever left.

           The keys clink softly together in his palm, and Merlin whirls around, eyes glowing gold in the light of the sun. His face is frantic, lines drawn deep from lack of sleep, red-eyes rimmed by black lashes. For a second they stare at each other, and then Arthur slowly raises his hands, palms out. Merlin flinches a little, tracking the movement. Then his eyes settle on Arthur’s face and he sighs, letting his jaw fall open, hands dropping to his sides.  Arthur’s heart aches.

           “Hi,” he says softly, and it feels like it will break him.

           Merlin moves slowly, muscles stiff. His steps are almost tentative as he crosses the floor. Arthur can see the charcoal smudged on his shoulder, the ink marking lines down his chest. He can smell him like a physical thing, feel the heat coming off his body. The light from the window paints the room in gold and shadows. Merlin’s eyes are lidded, breaths shallow. He takes another step forward, and all of the air seems to leave the room. Arthur shuts his eyes. Prays.

            Then there’s the click of the air conditioner, and Arthur’s eyes open on empty air. Merlin has retreated to one of his canvases. Arthur listens to the sweep of Merlin’s hands across its surface, the faint rush of water through the pipes around them, and waits for his heartbeat to slow.  


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who's kept up with this thus far. You are lovely, exceptional human beings and your presence means so much to me! 
> 
> There's actually some plot in this chapter! (enjoy!)

           Morgana doesn’t sleep. Instead she finds an all-night diner, tucks herself into a worn-out booth, and orders something hot to wrap her hands around. It isn’t one of their regular spots. She can’t face Arthur. Not tonight.   She’s staring into the bottom of her cup when Morgause slips into the booth across from her. Morgana watches through her lashes as the waitress scurries over, takes Morgause’s order with nervous hands. Leaves. Silence settles back into the booth. Morgana pulls at a loose thread at her sleeve, twines it around and around her finger and watches the blood drain from the digit. Morgause is staring coolly around the room, taking in the smudged windows and the dirty checkered floor. Morgana watches her.

            “What do you want?” she asks, after a moment. She wants it to sound intimidating, callous, but it comes out like a plea instead of a question. 

            Morgause must hear it too, because she looks straight at her and says,

            “Magic is leaving the city Morgana.”

            Morgana feels her blood run cold,

            “What?” she begins, “no-”

            But Morgause cuts across her,

            “That’s why you’re forgetting.”

            The room seems to compress around her, and she can taste the bitter sting of coffee at the back of her throat, feel the press of the night at the sides of her head.

            “I don’t want to forget,” she says quietly, and the corner of Morgause’s lips pull slightly upward,

            “None of us do,” she says.

            Morgana looks across at her then. At the familiar dangerous set of her mouth, the shape of her wide-rimmed eyes outlined in gray. She looks closer, at the faint creases that run from the bridge of her nose, the lattice of wrinkles framing her lashes, draws in a shuddering breath.

            “We did terrible things Morgause.”

            Morgause regards her calmly,

            “So did they,” she says, and Morgana remembers crying out in her sleep and being told she’d dreamed it, being terrified and alone and betrayed by her friends. Being poisoned and stabbed and stolen from her home. Soft hands on her forehead telling her she would be alright. Morgause in the darkness and feeling like she was worth something for the first time in all her lives.  She remembers blood and breaking and a boy king too young to rule.

            She looks at Morgause, sitting there whole and healthy and lets her voice crack a little on the words.

            “I don’t want to hurt anyone this time.”

            They’re still for a long moment, and then Morgana reaches across the table and runs a hand through Morgana’s hair. Morgana feels herself lean into it, pushes her head closer into Morgause’s palm like a kitten. Morgause’s voice is strangely raw when she speaks,

            “I made a promise to you once that I would protect you,” she says, “I haven’t forgotten.”

            Morgana has a second to get lost in the moment, and then the waitress is back with a forced smile and a chirped,

“Are you ladies needing anything or-?”

            Morgana blushes and grabs for her drinks, but Morgause just pulls her hand away, reclining back against the booth,

            “We’re fine here,” she says, “ _Thank you_ ,” and looks unperturbed as the waitress retreats to the table nearest them. Morgana is still staring into her mug, but after a moment she hears Morgause clear her throat and says, “I want to show you something.”

            Morgana opens her mouth to ask, but then Morgause is taking her hand and sweeping her out of the booth.

            “Wait!” Morgana grabs for her purse, “We haven’t paid our check.”

            Morgause just keeps moving,

            “And our waitress was rude,” she says, and then they’re pushing through the doors and into the night.

            Morgause takes her in a taxi down four alleys and a side street, and after a while Morgana gives up on trying to track where they’re going. Instead, she just lays her head against the window, feels the glass cold and hard against her cheek, and watches the streetlights streak by in burnt yellow smears. There is something thin and fragile in her chest, and she knots her arms around it and closes her eyes.

            All too quickly, they’ve arrived, and Morgause pays the driver and gets out of the cab, and Morgana takes a moment and then follows. Morgause is talking on the phone.

            “Yes,” she says, “Come down.”

            Morgana feels herself turn in slow motion because there, standing barefoot on the sidewalk, is Mordred. There are tattoos on his arms and a silver ring through his nose, but it’s him and her feet start to move as his eyes widen. Then he’s running towards her with her name on his lips and tears in his eyes and when they reach each other she grabs for him and doesn’t let go for a long time.

            When they finally pull apart Mordred keeps his hands on her arms. His fingers feel like burning.  

            “How are you, Morgana?”

            And she looks up into his eyes and tells him,

            “I can’t sleep.”

            Mordred brushes a strand of hair away from her face, smiles softly,

            “Neither can I.”

           

            Mordred has roommates, so they end up sitting on the roof of his apartment building, drinking middle-shelf red wine and staring out at the city. Morgause had departed soon after they arrived, and Morgana looks at the sky and sees her eyes scattered in the stars.

            Mordred is sitting on the ledge beside her, dark curls falling in an artful tousle across his gray eyes. After a moment, he says,

            “Morgause told you?”

            Morgana pauses, takes a sip of wine,

            “Some,” she says. She runs the tip of her finger around the rim of her glass, “She said that magic was leaving?”

            Mordred nods, pensive,

            “That’s why we can’t remember all the way.”

            Morgana studies his face, the hard line of his nose and the gaunt shadows of his cheeks. He’s sharper this time around, older. She doesn’t quite know what to make of it.

            “What do you mean?”

            Mordred sighs, swallows.

            “It’s like the connection is broken,” he says, “The memories need magic to keep them alive, and without it it’s like they’re dying out. That’s why he’s gathering the sorcerers back together, he hopes that they’ll be able to recall more.”

            Morgana looks at him, asks the question,

            “Why? Why is he doing this?”

            Mordred shifts slightly, glances at his hands,

            “He wants to understand how he fell,” he murmurs, and Morgana feels cold.

            “Using magic?”

            Mordred shrugs, clasps his hands together,

            “This time Igraine died in a car crash,” he says, “It’s different. Besides, Uther already let his fear of magic be his downfall, he won’t do it again.”

            Morgana swallows,

            “Why is she helping him?” she asks, and Mordred sighs

            “It’s a means to an end,” he says, “We all want to remember who we are.”

            Morgana shakes her head,

            “Not like that,” she says, “Mordred, I saw what they did to Cedric, I don’t want to remember that way. Not this time.” Her hands are shaking, and Mordred reaches out and takes them in his, rubs warmth into her fingers,

            “They are working on gathering data in less extreme ways,” he says, “It’s slow but… they’re trying.”

            “What do you mean?”

             Mordred’s forehead creases slightly, he licks his lips,

            “As you saw, the process of magical memory recovery can be… taxing. There are other, more natural methods of recall that are less invasive, but they take time and aren’t as effective,” Morgana nods, and Mordred continues, “From what I know, there’s a team working on gathering this kind of data as well, but they’re afraid that if they rely too closely on this process, they’re going to run out of time.”

           “What’s the process?”

           He turns to face her again, looks tired.

           “How are your nightmares?”

           And Morgana gets a sinking feeling in her stomach and _knows._

           “They’re not nightmares,” she asks, “Are they?” And for the first time during their meeting, Mordred looks hesitant,

           “No,” he says carefully, “They’re not.”

           Morgana sits back on the ledge, lets the feeling sink into her skin. She thinks of blood and battles and wishes they were dreams. After a moment, she hears herself speak,

           “I suppose we’re more receptive in our sleep,” she says, and Mordred nods,

           “Something like that,” he tells her, checks his watch with a hollow laugh, “I have to work in less than four hours.”

            The change of subject is easy, and she takes it.

           “Where do you work?”

           “Tattoo place on 5th,” he says, stretches his arms over his head, “It pays the bills. I’ll call you a cab.” He gets slowly to his feet and begins to walk back towards the stairs. Morgana watches the curve of his spine and the shift of his feet and misses him so intensely that it hurts. He’s at the door when he turns back to her, backlit by black sky, and says softly, “He won’t be king forever, Morgana.”

           The stars spin out above them, and she feels small against it. Feels immaterial. Shakes her head,

           “It doesn’t matter without the others. Without Gwen or Merlin, or-”

Mordred stops moving, one hand on the door.

            “I’ve met Merlin,” he says, “He’s here.”


	11. Chapter 11

_Eleven: Arthur_

 

            Arthur is dragging his feet up the stairs to his building a few days later when he hears his name being called behind him, and turns around to see Merlin running up the sidewalk.

            “Hi,” Merlin says, a little breathlessly, tucking the front of his scarf more tightly into his jacket, “I just got out of class.”

            “How was it?” Arthur asks him automatically, and sees surprise in Merlin’s eyes.

            “It was fine,” he says, “Listen, I wanted to thank you for the other day. Freya, uh, says you stopped by.”

            Arthur pauses for a minute. He thinks before answering, remembers stacking dishes in the sink and pushing water into Merlin’s hands.

            “You don’t remember?”

            Merlin runs a hand back through his hair, laughs a little awkwardly,

            “Parts of it,” he says, but doesn’t look at Arthur, “I was kind of running on zero sleep, you know? I, uh, sometimes get that way when I work,” he glances at Arthur and hurries on, “It’s nothing you know, just gets kind of blurry there at the end.”

            “It’s fine,” Arthur says, “Don’t worry about it. Really.” He turns back to the door, but Merlin lets out a breath and asks,

            “How are you?”

            Arthur turns back,

            “I’m,” he starts to say fine, but can’t quite make himself, “alright,” he waits for a moment, but Merlin is still looking at him. So he asks, “How are you?”

            “Good!” Merlin says quickly, “Good. I’m good.” He smiles a little ruefully, crinkling the corners of his eyes. And then it’s the strangest thing, because Arthur is looking at him, but it’s like he’s seeing double. Seeing Merlin here on the steps, and then again somewhere else. Somewhere different. He gets a flicker of heat at the back of his head, but it’s not exhaustion or anxiety it’s just… nice. Just a brush of something close to the curve of his temple, a faint sensation of warmth that spreads down into his chest. Merlin takes a deep breath. “Look,” he says, “I’m sorry that she asked you to do that.”

         Arthur shakes his head, tries to bring himself back into the moment. Maybe he’s tired.

         “She’s your friend,” he says “she was worried about you.”

         “I know,” Merlin sighs, “but you’re not.” He pauses. Rakes a hand back through his hair, “But, uh, you could be? I promise it’s not always semi-naked painting. I do other, normal, friend stuff too like, getting coffee or watching movies or…” he trails off, looking at Arthur.

          It takes him a moment.

          “Do you want to hang out with me?” and Merlin smiles like the sun,

          “Only if you’re not doing anything,” he says quickly, “I figured I could like, make you dinner or something to say thank you for babysitting me the other day.”

            Arthur almost doesn’t know what to say.

            “Okay,” he answers, after a moment.

            Merlin’s apartment looks somehow smaller than Arthur remembers it. It’s neater now with all the paintings stacked against the walls and the furniture back in place. Some of the boxes have been unpacked, and the furnishings are sparse but comforting. There’s a row of glass bottles along the window sill, filtering the sun in cobalt blues and brilliant greens. A blanket thrown over the back of the couch. Arthur sees a photo of Merlin and Freya propped on the coffee table, a quick snap shot in front of a blurry building. Merlin has an arm around Freya’s waist, and she’s laughing into his neck, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed.

             There’s a soft clink from behind him. Merlin hangs his keys on the hook and drops his bag by the door, calling over his shoulder to Freya,

            “I’m home!” he shouts, “I brought Arthur.” No one answers and Merlin shrugs, “She must have class,” he says, stripping off his jacket. Arthur tries not to watch his shoulders flex.

            “How did you two meet?” he asks, and Merlin yawns, motioning him over to the kitchen.

            “Class,” he says, “Last quarter. We were in a GUR together that we hated and we fell in love and moved to the city. You know how it goes.”

            Arthur doesn’t. He shrugs, sticks his hands in his pockets,

            “What was the class?”

            Merlin groans,

            “Philosophy,” he says “And it was all sweeping generalizations and grand ideas about morality and we hated it,” a smile flicks across his lips, and he brings his hand up to the back of his neck, “Of course I stuck with it, so, I guess that makes me kind of an idiot.”

            Arthur frowns,

            “I don’t think you’re an idiot,” he says, and Merlin smiles,

            “What did you study?” he asks, “I mean, did you or-?”

            “Law,” Arthur says, “And national politics.”

            Merlin looks impressed,

            “Shit,” he says, “No wonder.”

            “No wonder what?”

            “Well,” Merlin shrugs, drops his gaze, “You always seem so stoic. I mean, no offense you just-” his eyes flick back up to Arthur’s, “always have this air of importance about you. You always seem so serious.”

              Arthur feels warm, looks down.

              “I really don’t,” he mumbles, and Merlin shoves his arm.

             “Oh my god,” he teases, “Do I need to call you Sir? Are you like, the secret CEO of a business empire?”

            Arthur feels curl in his stomach,

            “No,” he says, “I’m not, I’m not anything special.”

            “Well,” Merlin walks over to the cabinet and throws it open, “I’m going to make you dinner fit for a king! We have pasta and… pasta.”

            Arthur smiles,

            “Pasta sounds good,” Arthur says seriously. He moves into the kitchenette behind Merlin, “Can I help?”

            Merlin is running water into a pot,

            “Think I got it,” he says, “Pasta making is one of the many things a degree in Philosophy prepares me for. That and supporting myself financially and disappointing my mother.” He transfers the pot to the stove and turns on the burner with a flick of his long fingers.

            “Does she mind?”

            Merlin throws a handful of salt into the water, stirs absently,

            “That I’m an anemic, punk philosopher with a penance for bad tattoos and homosexual tendencies? No, she loves it. I’m the perfect son.”

            “So you and Freya are…”

            “Roommates,” Merlin answers, “Oh my god we’re roommates.”

            “You said you fell in love.”

            “We did. Queer platonic intimacy is important.”

            “It is,” Arthur says, “You just… I didn’t. You fit well with each other. I’m happy for you.”

            Merlin sighs,

            “We shall die old and gay and in each other’s arms,” he says, “And there will be candles and music and great poems written about the strength of our love and our inability to pay the electrical on time."

            “Hence the candles,” Arthur says.

            Merlin nods,

            “Hence the candles,” he smiles, reaches up to grab a glass, shirt riding up over the small of his back. Arthur looks away. “We have juice” he says, “And, shit never mind,” he screws the cap back on the carton and tosses it in the trash, “We don’t have milk. But there’s water.”

            “Water’s fine,” Arthur tells him, and Merlin gestures to the tap with a flourish, turning back to the stove to check if the water’s boiling.

            Arthur fills his glass. He sees things in the stream, but he shakes his head and blinks them away.

            “So,” Merlin is looking at him, leaning up against the counter “Do you get along with your folks?”

            Arthur takes a sip, throat working.

            “My father and I…” he starts, “it’s complicated. My mother’s dead.”

            Merlin raises his glass towards him,

            “So is my dad,” he says, “cheers.”

            Arthur laughs a little, despite himself.

             “Yeah,” he says, and Merlin looks down.

            “No but for real I am sorry,” he says, “That sucks. I know that sucks.”

            Arthur nods,

            “It’s okay,” he says, “It happened when I was young and I didn’t really know her,” Merlin is looking at him, eyes kind, and he says, “There was a car crash and I, well they got me out but she died. I think she might have, you know, swerved or something because I was fine, but...”

            “Shit,” Merlin says.

            Arthur nods, and then hears himself say,

            “I have dreams about it, sometimes.”

            Merlin is watching him, something  serious about his gaze.

            “You remember her dying?”

            Arthur shrugs, looks down at his hands.

            “I must, or else how…”

             The sound of the door opening cuts off the sentence, and then Freya is coming in through the hallway. 

            “Home!” she sings out, swinging her bag off of her shoulder. Merlin shoots Arthur a smile and then pushes off from the counter.

            “Freya!” he calls, and sweeps her into a hug, “Arthur’s here,” he says into her hair, and she smiles and squeezes his arm.

            “Hey you,” she says, “How was your day?”

            “Class, class, work, sleep, class,” he says, holding her at arm’s length, “But I got groceries!” she raises an eyebrow and he relents, “Okay, I got _a_ grocery, but it’s that artisan bread that you like and it wasn’t even on day old sale. Look who loves you.”

            “Ah,” she says, “I’m speechless. Your love is awe-inspiring.”

            Merlin grins at her, rolls his eyes.

            “We’re making pasta,” he says, “Come through.”

            Freya follows him back into the kitchen, biting at the corner of her thumbnail.

           “Did you take your meds?” She asks, and Merlin glances over his shoulder at her,

           “Fre-ya,” he wines, mocking outrage, “I have a _boy_ over.”

           “Yes, I know you have a boy over,” she says seriously, “Don’t change the subject.”

           Merlin rips the top off of the pasta, dumps it deftly into the water. Doesn’t meet her eyes.

           “I haven’t renewed the prescription,” he says, and raises his hands, “But I will, Jesus,”

            She gives him a long look before turning around and ducking into the bathroom. Merlin waits until the water starts running before dropping his act and turning to Arthur. “Sorry about that,” he says, “I’m supposed to be taking something for anxiety or whatever, but I actually can’t afford to renew it right now. Don’t tell her.”

           Arthur nods,

           “That’s alright,” he tells him, “Really. It’s all okay.”

           Merlin holds his gaze for moment, but then Freya is back, clapping her hands,  

           “Alright,” she says, “What did I miss?”

            They make pasta with canned red sauce, and Freya sets the table with real dishes and cloth napkins, and Merlin lights candle stubs with a worn plastic lighter and a tiny smile. Freya puts on music, and she and Merlin chat to each other about classes and other students, and Arthur washes dishes and it’s nice. Feels comfortable.  Freya is teasing Merlin and about something, and Arthur watches him tip his head back and laugh and misses him so intensely it hurts.

            They’re sitting down at the table when there’s a loud knocking on the apartment door. Freya starts to get up from her chair, but then the door is thrown open and two men come stomping in, trailing dirt and cigarette smoke. One is slightly shorter, with long brown hair and a crooked grin, the other is the size of the doorframe.

            Arthur looks towards Merlin, but he just rolls his eyes.  

            “Gwaine!” he groans, “You have that key for emergencies!”

             The shorter man rolls his eyes, flicking his long hair out of his eyes,

              “We’re hungry,” he announces, “It’s an emergency.”

              His companion runs a hand over his shaven head,

              “I’m sorry about him,” he says ruefully, glancing at Freya, “I tried to stop him but you know how it gets. You know how he gets.”

             Merlin sticks his fork into his pasta,

             “I do,” he agrees, “I do know how he gets.”

             Gwaine sweeps down and kisses his cheek,

            “You love me!” he announces, ruffling his hair.

             Merlin shoves him off,

             “Die,” he deadpans, “Die a fiery death.”

              Gwaine just grins,

             “So,” he says, sinking into one of the empty chairs and snagging a piece of bread, “Who’s this?”

             Freya goes to get more plates. 

              They eat dinner, and Arthur learns that the tall man’s name is Percival, and that he and Gwaine are both students at the university, both working part-time for the same construction company, and somewhat inexplicably inseparable. Percival is quiet and sincere, and Gwaine is loud and charming and he and Merlin fight like and old married couple and take turns stealing each other’s forks and telling increasingly embarrassing stories that make Freya shake her head and look stern and Percival look questionably at the ceiling and very obviously re-evaluate his life shoices.

            “So,” Gwaine says, buttering his fourth slice of bread, “What do you do Arthur?”

             Arthur looks up from his plate and has a moment where he doesn’t remember. Everyone’s looking at him and he just draws a blank,

            “I’m between jobs at the moment,” he says finally.

            Merlin takes the opportunity to steal Gwaine’s beer.

            “Arthur is our neighbor,” he says, between sips, and Gwaine scowls and moves Merlin’s glass to the other side of the table. Freya shakes her head and passes it back.

           “Oh my god,” she grumbles, “We need normal friends, why don’t we have normal friends?”

             Gwaine smirks,

           “Because Merlin’s idea of friendship is to ask people to model for him naked,” he says, “And you are gorgeous but clearly evil.”

            Freya’s eyes flash as she smiles,

            “I’m not evil,” she says lightly, and Gwaine shakes his head,

           “Sorry, Sweetheart,” he says, “You’re not allowed to be as smart as you are without a fatal flaw… I’m thinking quiet serial-killing.”

           Percival nods,

           “I can see it,” he says quietly, “You always have cleaning supplies and you’re never here at night,” he takes a bite and chews meditatively, “It makes sense.”

           Freya rolls her eyes,

          “I take night classes,” she says, “Calm down.”

          Gwaine takes a steals his beer back from Merlin and takes a long sip,

           “So,” he says, “How are the night classes? Have they taught you how to blow anything up yet?”

            Freya dabs at the corner of her mouth with the napkin,

            “It’s chemistry,” she says, “That was basically our first lesson.”

            The conversation turns to their classes, and Gwaine lapses into silences as Freya outlines a particularly interesting experiment for them, eyes gleaming as she talks. Arthur is starting to feel light-headed.

           “I’m going to go get some air,” he tells them, and gets up from the table. There’s a small balcony leading off from the apartment, and Arthur slips outside. Feels the cold air on his face and leans his arms on the railing. The darkness is soothing after the light from inside, and he puts his back to the apartment and looks out into the night, thinking about nothing as his body slowly calms.

            After a moment, the sliding door opens behind him, and Merlin comes out.

            “You okay?” he asks, walking up beside Arthur and placing his hands on the railings.

            “Yeah,” Arthur looks over at him and catches his silhouette. Turns back, “Yeah,” he says, just thinking.”

            Merlin nods,

            “About what?”

            Arthur doesn’t know what to say, so he’s honest.

            “This is nice,” he says, “It feels normal.”

            Merlin smiles, laughs a little.

            “Yeah,” he says, “Because Gwaine is normal.”

            Arthur shrugs, tilts his head in acknowledgment,

            “I mean eating dinner,” he says, and then, “Having friends.” Laughter drifts in from inside, and Arthur turns his head and watches the other talk for a few moments before turning back, “I really am between jobs.”

            “Yeah?” Merlin asks, sips his beer. Arthur watches the tattoos flex on his neck.

“Yeah,” he says. He hasn’t told anyone this in a while, “I was a lawyer for a while. At a firm and everything.”

            “No shit,” Merlin says, “What happened?”

            Arthur bites his lip, takes the plunge,

            “It’s hard to brief a case without sleeping for a few days,” he says, “I just… wasn’t able to keep up after a while.”

            Merlin is looking at him, really looking at him, and Arthur feels the weight of his gaze on his face. Makes himself stay still. Merlin’s eyes are kind.

            “Come inside,” he says, so he does.

            The others are still talking, so Arthur sits down on one end of the couch with Merlin on the other, lays his head against the arm and shuts his eyes. He ends up drifting off, has the dream again. Dark waters and drowning and someone calling his name. _Arthur. Arthur-_ Arthur wakes with a start. The lights are off in the apartment. The others have gone.

            “-Arthur.” Merlin is standing over him, and for a second all Arthur can do is focus on his face. Then his chest expands and he’s sucking air into his lungs and his head is spinning. Merlin is beside him, closer now, face pale in the moonlight, “Are you okay?”

            “Yeah,” he says, heart racing, “I’m okay.”


	12. Chapter 12

Arthur

Several hours after Arthur leaves apartment, he calls Lance. 

“What’s up?”Lance asks him, and Arthur says, 

“I wanna hit shit.”

“Okay,” Lance says. 

Lance comes over and they go down to the alley between Arthur’s building and the next and beat the shit out of each other. Someone might have stopped them, before. Now they just walk past. Lance wins, and when it’s over the sit on the curb and blow cigarette smoke into the steel gray sky. 

“So,” Lance asks, after a few minutes have passed, “What’s up?”

“There’s this guy,” Arthur starts, and Lance gives a low laugh and ashes his cigarette. Arthur makes a face. “Not like that,” he says, “He just moved into the building and there’s something… there’s something about him.”

Lance lights another cigarette.

“So you wanna fuck your roommate?” he asks. An older woman walking by with a young girl glares over in their direction and starts walking faster, dragging her companion along behind her. 

“I don’t want to fuck anyone!” Arthur protests, and Lance glances over at him, expression softening, so he adds a wink and a “Unless they buy me dinner first,” and Lance sighs and rolls his eyes and takes a drag before letting smoke spill from his broken lips. Arthur shifts at his side, ribs stinging sharply, and makes a small gesture with his fingers. Lance frowns over at him, but hands him the cigarette with a begrudging grumble. Arthur’ side throbs as he reaches for it. He stares up at the gathering storm-clouds for a minute, tasting smoke and silence. Then he says, “Merlin is my neighbor, not my roommate.”

“Whatever.” Lance flicks his hair out of his eyes. It had come out of it’s haphazard knot during their fight, and now hung to his waist in a tangle of translucent strands. Arthur’ fingers fingers itch to pull through it. He keeps his hand still.

“Not whatever asshole,” he grumbles, turning his eyes to the emptied building along the block and the pale horizon, “He’s just…. There’s something about him.”

Lance settles back on his elbows, head tilted towards the sky.

“You said that,” he says, but his voice is softer now, and his eyes are kind and not watching Arthur.

Arthur swallows.

“I think,” he begins, “I think I’ve seen him before. Or. I don’t know. I feel like I know him. Somehow. From somewhere. I- you think I’m crazy don’t you?”

“No,” Lance says. He’s got his carton out from the pocket of his coat and is tapping another cigarette out of it against the curb. Arthur can’t see his face. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy. I know you’re crazy. Where would you know him from?”

“I don’t know.” Arthur flops petulantly back across the side-walk, smacking his head a little against the concrete. “Maybe out? Maybe we- but he doesn’t seem like he knows me and he’s, he’s the type you remember, you know?”

Lance smiles a little,

“Yeah,” he says. Then his cell phone goes off in his pocket and he shits around to pull it out and check the screen, “hold that thought.” Arthur peers obtrusively over his shoulder, and Lance groans and shoves him off, levering himself off the curb in one fluid motion. “It’s work,” he says, “Try not to get into too much trouble.”

Arthur jams his boot into the mire of trash and leaves and damp newspapers in the gutter before him. 

“What job?” he asks, and Lance raises an eyebrow and says,

“The one I don’t need uniform for. We’ll talk later.”

The pages of the newspaper are sodden and smeared, ink bleeding through the thin fibers. There’s a half-torn headline over-taking most of the page. Something about the Dead. Recovered bodies. Arthur tries to read the rest, but it’s obscured by the gutters gore.

“You know I’ll pay your bills, right?” He calls after Lance.

Lance rolls his eyes, 

“You know I’ll kick your ass, right?” 

Arthur turns to say something else, but the street is empty. 

 

Merlin isn’t wearing shoes when he opens the door to his apartment. 

“I’ve been having your nightmares,” Arthur blurts.

Merlin’s fingers freeze on the door frame.

“Freya,” he says, “Get the mail.”

Freya is sitting cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, head bent down and glasses on, sorting through flash-cards.

“Huh?” she says, looking up, “I got it last time!” 

Merlin laughs.

“You’re sure?” he asks, voice brighter than the muted gray light filtering through the high windows, but his gaze doesn’t move from Arthur’s face. His eyes are guarded. “I think Carla is sending us a care-package today, and I won’t be able to grab it until I’m done being neighborly.”

Freya heaves a dramatic sigh,

“Fine.” He says, pushing himself up from the floor, “but only because I know how important it is to you to make a good impression in the new neighborhood.” He pauses at the door, considering, “And because Carla really does do the best care packages. Those and Christmas Stockings. And salads, for some reason.”

“She is and enigma,” Merlin agrees, “And kind of perfect, which goes without saying I guess. Apple and the tree and all. I’ll owe you a debt of gratitude and I’ll do all of your dishes tonight if you take my turn.”

Freya smiles at him,

“You don’t have to do my dishes,” she says, quiet, “I’ll get the mail.”

Merlin looks after him as Freya’s footsteps echo down the stairs, and then fade away.

Arthur looks over towards the stairwell too, following Freya’s shoulders until she’s out of sight. 

“She doesn’t know about the magic?” he asks, and he can see Merlin shaking his head out of the corner of his eye,

“No,” he says, “She doesn’t know.”

“Who else?” Arthur asks, “Who does?”

“Just… you,” Merlin says.


End file.
